The Parade

Always the fox reaching for the grape.
A box of snapshots from a small town parade.
See the smiles perched in the carriage?
Under furry blankets, waving at strangers.
Let's hitch our wagon to enthusiasm's horse.
We don't need a reason to dangle our feet.
Smiles from a crowd make a lovely breeze.
Here, i give you this perfect grass saber.
Squeeze it taunt, between the thumbs,
Blow your kiss firmly.
The sound zaps storm clouds from miles away.
See the eyes of the deep horse watching?
He can feel what saddles our mind.
Let's think him a tale of love-dipped happy.
He'll carry us proudly in this wonderful parade.
Up ahead, in the center, a town hall is waiting.
Hunkered in time and flanked by worn benches.
Giant oaks shake hands and host meetings.
Where busy squirrels pass amendments,
and birds busk for change.

The rib's cage

There you pine, jailed in your ribcage.
Little plastic army men keeping you at bay.
Turnstiles click, at each year's passing.
Shiny chalk pieces marking the days.
Fingers grasping a flimsy metal tray rim.
Every season reduced to gruel on a spoon.
Creamed corn, potato, cherries jubilee.
The warden's face is so familiar.
Sulking in your pitiful hot spring.
You a shiny cipher, hiding the solution.
A dangling wind chime, stuffed mute with cotton.
Every window scraped clean but painted shut.
Lounging on hands, gazing across your life's field.
And the hungry wolves you leave to tending your sheep.

one

There is this 'other' side of things.
I repeated to myself intentionally.
The second time spoken in the opposite direction.
Our shadow shines bright in the other of places.
Our frowns turn joyful across a mirror's divide.
Confusion turns crystal behind the fabled door.
Sadness migrates to tickle a belly.
Fear sprouts a sunflower tending to bees' children.
And as thunder crouches,
behind the veil,
rainbows are waxing.
I suppose,
when juxtaposed,
it all equals one.

Magic Stick

Here's a magic stick i found powered by imagination. Use it quickly to take over the world, rescue a damsel, or stop evil ninjas. It's shaped like a seven stretched high to the heavens. It's the perfect ray gun with a thumb hole for a trigger. There's a scope if you need it, though your aim is impeccable. Your belt-loop is the holster and you cock it like this. These acorns are smoke bombs and this wood-chip is a walkie-talkie. I'll be in the kitchen guarding our ship. As you travel through time it's also a musket. If you turn it backwards, a magic wand is revealed. It's long enough for a sword and in a pinch, a javelin. Use it for truth, honor, and justice. Remember, don't cherish the stick, but the dreams that wield it. It's something you'll want for the rest of your life.

Passion's Beam

"Where are you?" I ask myself waiting patiently. Here i am with these plans of adventure. Toes flex and fidget at the hunch of missing you. I made us a picnic, a red apple and gouda. We can divvy it up with the knife you saw crowning in the dirt. Remember that day? I was hot and you were beaming. We chuckled in the stream as we jumped rock and boulder. Everywhere we looked I saw your reflection. I needed you that day. I always need you. You are my reason to rise from my pillow. When you leave i collapse and dream of your pictures. I am your helpless child, your suckling infant. You show me my shadow and remind me i am seen. On closing my eyes i can feel your light's whisper. My eyelids no match for your mighty embrace. Burn through this fog that lays thick between us. Let me bask in your glory and walk in your way. I know you are there, but wonder if you hear me. I love you Sun! Please come out and play.

The excavation

Her dreams were buried deep, below her proud standing. Here she was, in the high of day's noon. Sweat fell like raindrops from a broken gutter. The desert dust keeping her eyes dry and clean. A space-aged shovel clanked on a boulder. It fell with the pack it clung to from home. Her tools spilled loose from the green army denim. She unwrapped a journal zipped safely in plastic. Pushing rubber buttons on the trusty Magellan, "beep, beep" came the assurance she rarely required. This is where history would merge with the present. Knee-pads inched their way over giant boots with effort. She had learned long ago the little things made the difference. She found her spot in this dry dusty nowhere. Raising her shovel high like some temple queen, she plunged her dagger deep into the earth. Bleeding rubble came spewing as she stabbed at her victim. She grunted in rhythm as the rocks crumbled surrender. Hours passed gently like a ten-speed geared easy. Her water was mental as she drank from the thought. Clank was the sound that would quench these lips open. She'd stop on the moment and bask in its time. By sunset she'd reach it, and pull loose her bounty. The dusty handle would squeak joyfully from attention. At that moment, she'd cross her legs and wipe her brow. She'd be sure and cherish the big reveal. She'd brush clean the container like a rescued box turtle. Inside, in the dark, waiting for the light. Her secret would shine again.

She told me frankly

She told me frankly that we were nothing special. My youth recalls the feeling as I paced through the streets. Gut-struck by the punch deep and low in the belly. My breath shattered into a million tiny pieces. My back falls to its knees searching for the beat. Drowning in surprise, the heart keeps gasping. Eyes claw their way up on the raft of belief. Now stranded on this sparse island. Vultures circle my hope laying fetal and panting. My destiny revealed in a feeble lonesome shadow. It stretches across the dunes as the sun slips away. In the dusking quiet i notice the moon has her company. Up there, deep in her mood. She reflects a lover's burning passion. Pools of tranquility look down on me with pity. Sometimes i notice the stars don't twinkle. They pulse an S.O.S. across the thick dark sky. In this cold, in this wind, in these bones, I am my hermit. I wrap my fish in the news of a family. I spark my tinder from a message in a bottle. I paint my cheeks with the ashes of our fire. It burned so bright, but so does my drumming. Through my nose. Out my mouth. No need for pinching. Alive and feasting on regret's bloody throat. Healing is overrated. Scars are trophies. Memories are ribbons. Your's is velvet blue with a giant gold medallion. Life should be so very proud of me.